


In Every World and Time

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 17:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17084204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: In the depths of her delirium, Brienne dreams of Jaime, over and over, in different times and different worlds. In every world and every time, there's a spark.**[Or, five times Brienne - encounters - a different version of Jaime, and one time she wakes to her own]





	In Every World and Time

Brienne lies in the infirmary in Winterfell, tossing and turning with fever. 

In her delirium, her fevered mind conjures incredibly vivid fantasies of the past, of the future, of other worlds and other times. 

In every world and every time, she dreams of Jaime. 

**

1\. The Kingslayer (age 30)

**

Richly caparisoned horses stamp and paw at the ground, snorting and half-rearing, their fantastically armoured riders controlling them and their long tourney lances with practiced ease. 

The crowd – ten thousand strong at least – cheer and whistle and call out to their favourites: Brienne sees Ser Barristan Selmy, grave and dignified in chaste white; the Knight of the Flowers, young and beautiful and bedecked with roses; a young red-headed knight she recognizes only from his surcoat as Beric Dondarrion. 

There, taking his place in the lists, is a knight in golden armour and a white cloak, his helm fashioned in the shape of a snarling lion’s head. The crowd roar as his name is called out; he tips his lance in showy acknowledgement, one gauntleted fist touching the strip of crimson silk tied about his arm. 

She wonders that he dares to wear Cersei’s favour so openly – but in these last, innocent years of Robert’s reign, who would suspect anything amiss? They are brother and sister, and he is a knight of the Kingsguard. 

The trumpets ring out. 

Between one moment and the next, all is still, and then the knights spur their horses into action, slow at first but gathering momentum until they are charging down on each other at a full gallop, hooves pounding and shaking the ground, little divots of turf flying up with every step.

The knights level their long ash lances, holding them steady with incredible skill and accuracy, until the horses come together and with a splintering crash one of the lances slams against the other knight’s shield, throwing him out of his saddle and sending him tumbling to the ground – 

The crowd roar and cheer, stamping their feet as Ser Jaime Lannister pulls off his helm, shakes out his golden hair and smiles.

He crowns his beautiful sister Queen of Love and Beauty. 

** 

Later that night, after the feasting, Brienne watches the Queen and then her brother slip away unnoticed. 

She gives them an hour, and then waits for him on his way back to White Sword Tower. 

He looks at her, taken aback – he is drunk and sated, she realizes, his eyes blurred and his smile crooked and lazy. She is startled to realize just how beautiful he is, before his imprisonment and maiming: clean-shaven and golden-haired, dressed in a pure white surcoat with all the lazy, leonine grace of a master swordsman in his prime. 

“Congratulations on your victory,” she says. “I see you excel – on the tourney field, at least.”

He narrows his eyes, tilts his head in that particular ironic way of his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Have we met?” And then – “Are you really a woman?”

** 

She goads him into a fight. It doesn’t take much. 

They fight in the deserted practice yard with blunted tourney swords, and even half-drunk he moves like quicksilver, swift and graceful and perfectly balanced, his wrists strong and his blows fierce. 

She fends off his initial onslaught – barely – and throws him back; he eyes her narrowly and begins to circle her, probing her more cautiously. 

And then, as always, he talks – pricking her, probing for weakness and vulnerability, seeking to provoke and distract her. With unerring accuracy he touches on all her sore spots, narrowing in with every cruel word and cruder jest – she knows him, knows his vicious tongue, and still it pricks her on the raw. Doggedly, she ignores his words and watches his eyes, his body language, the tiny, subtle tells that warn her of his attacks. 

Their blades clash and their eyes lock in a taut battle of wits and will. It is exhilarating, glorious, and her heart pounds and her blood runs swift and hot. 

She is never quite sure which of them disarms the other first, only that he slams her up against the wall, his body sweat-slick and strong – he smells like Cersei’s perfume, she has a moment to think – so perfect in his muscular grace and golden beauty. She fists her hand in his surcoat and pulls him in, and then they’re kissing, mouths devouring and bodies pressed flush against each other. She scrabbles at his laces and his hand plunges into her breeches, fingers probing her and thumb pressed hard against her clit; she whimpers, hips writhing and tightens her grip on him. He presses her hard against the wall behind her and she wraps a leg around his waist, and he frees himself and presses into her with a loud groan – 

They fuck right then and there, fully clothed in the training yard, and she comes with a smothered gasp, her hands tangled in his golden hair. 

**

2\. The lord of Casterly Rock

**

“Welcome, ser knight,” says the innkeeper at the Golden Lion – the most exclusive inn in Lannisport, if he is to be believed. “You’ll have come for the marriage feast at the Rock, I suppose.” 

“Yes,” Brienne says. “I suppose I have.” 

“Why, all the Westerlands have been invited it seems. And I’m sure I wish the good Lady Joanna and her new lord well.”

“Lady Joanna?” Brienne asks. “Not – Lady Cersei?” 

“Lady Cersei?” the innkeeper looks puzzled. “We had a Lady Cersei once, long years past, when good Lord Jaime was but a babe. They were twins, you know – but she didn’t survive her first year, gods rest her soul.”

** 

Brienne has often wondered what Jaime could have been, without Cersei’s influence. A commander who inspired intense loyalty, bright-burning, powerful, honourable and dangerous; a golden lion holding the Westerlands safe in his strong grip. 

The reality – when she finally makes her way to the Rock and sees him for herself – is somewhat lacking. 

Lord Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock has none of her own Jaime’s romantic streak, his jagged edges, his fierce pride and razor-edged smile, or even the all-encompassing devotion that saw him give up Casterly Rock for his sister and a white cloak. This Jaime is far too grounded for such flights of fancy – while he might have dreamed about being a white-cloaked hero when he was younger, he grew up and grew out of it. 

Ruthless, practical, calculating – he is, in fact, rather like Lord Tywin.

This Jaime married Lysa Arryn when he was 15 and sired a pride of lion cubs on her – the eldest daughter being Lady Joanna. He treats his wife with civil indifference and has a mistress in Lannisport – mindful of his grandfather’s example, he makes sure she does not entertain ideas above her station.

This Jaime has never questioned his place in the world or raged at the cruelty of a mad king, has never had to choose between conflicting vows or wrestle with the definition of honour.

This Jaime has never fucked his sister and thought the world well lost for love. 

Brienne thinks him a diminished shadow of the proud, fierce, sardonic Kingslayer; a better man perhaps, certainly a better lord, but not singular, not – exceptional. 

He eyes her with mild interest when she makes her bow. They spar, once – she can see that he must have been very good, in his youth – and he frowns when she disarms him, but it’s a distant, indifferent expression – not sharp, not fierce, not vicious. 

They fuck, but it's just not - he has no _teeth_ , she thinks, disappointed. 

**

3\. The Kingslayer (age 17)

**

He’s so young, she thinks; too young for his eyes to be so haunted. 

It’s only been two days since Aerys’ death, and the implications of his actions have still yet to sink in; Robert Baratheon has yet to coin the name Kingslayer, but already the whispers follow him wherever he goes. He hasn’t yet learned to shrug them off, and she can see how they cut deeper than any sword. 

She gains entrance to his chambers by the simple expedient of climbing the stairs of White Sword Tower and knocking. 

When he opens the door and lets her in, she asks him only one question: why. 

** 

When they fuck, it’s a desperate, rushed, hidden coupling, and he’s shaking as he comes; he hides his face in her neck and is wracked with tremors. She thinks – she thinks he calls her Cersei.

She doesn’t mind. She simply holds him as he weeps. 

** 

4\. The old lion of Tarth

**

She steps off the ship and onto the Sapphire Isle. The docks are busier and more prosperous than she remembers; there are more warehouses lining the cobbled streets and more ships in the bay. 

There’s an old man sitting at a tavern overlooking the bustling docks, surveying the activity with a pleased, almost proprietary air; something about him catches her eye, and so she draws closer – 

His beard is almost entirely grey and his smile is a softened echo of the sharp, reckless grin she had first known, but this is a man finally centred – loved by his wife and children and held in good regard by the smallfolk, he seems genuinely happy to have traded in his role on a grander stage for the rural tranquility of Tarth.

His green eyes still spark wickedly when they fall on her, though. 

**

When he touches her, it is with grave, reverent tenderness and the familiarity of long years of marriage. 

She can’t call it fucking. 

**

5\. Ser Jaime Lannister (age 15)

**

His blood is up; the battle had been hard-fought and he had killed his man. The white-cloaked Ser Arthur Dayne, looking like the Warrior incarnate, had knighted him on the field, and young Jaime Lannister’s eyes burn fierce green with triumph and adrenaline. 

He fixes that wild gaze on her –

“Oh,” he says, “you’re a woman. I saw you on the field earlier – you fought like a demon!”

He’s looking at her with wide-eyed admiration and awe, mixed in with curiosity and growing interest, and he’s even younger than she ever imagined. 

No, she thinks. Just – no. 

**

+1. Her own Jaime

**

When she wakes from her fever, she comes slowly back to reality. She feels the scratchy mattress beneath her, feels her body, aching and weak, feels the weight and warmth of another body beside her. 

“Jaime,” she says, smiling a little. “I dreamed of you.”

She hears the familiar huff of his amusement. He leans over to look at her, his face unshaven and weary, marked with lines of laughter and pain and experience, no longer the perfect golden knight of summer. 

“Good dreams, I hope,” he replies. 

She can feel the tide of her fatigue dragging her under, her eyes heavy as she fights to keep them open. She lifts her hand, shaking, and places it against his cheek, feeling the soft rasp of his beard. 

“In every world, in every time,” she says.

The last thing she sees before sleep rolls over her are his wicked green eyes and his sharp smile.


End file.
